We're Plastic But We Still Have Fun
by awesomeasusual
Summary: After a failed attempt at a solo career, Soul makes his living as a paparazzi. He's lucky he's got Maka Albarn, childhood bestie and model extraordinaire, to help him make some cash.
Soul fiddled with his camera on his way up to his apartment. It's heavy, and has about 30 billion moving parts, so of course it breaks whenever he so much as accidentally nudges it off his desk and into the waste basket. Black Star, editor-in-chief of the shittiest tabloid in their sprawling city, would have forced him to wear the broken pieces of his camera around his neck, along with a shaming sign ("I am only allowed to take polaroids with a fujimax mini," was a particular favorite of Star's), and then forced Soul to pay the repairs with his own money.

Soul had to fix it himself, and quick.

"Bitch betta have my money."

Ugh. Fuck.

Landlord, part-time model, full-time nag, Kim Diehl, leaned up against his door. Soul had successfully avoided her as he left his apartment that morning, partly because Kim didn't get out of bed until after 1pm.

"First of the month is up, Evans," Kim drawled.

"I need a couple more days Kim, you know I'm good for it."

"I didn't have these problems when your brother was renting," she sniffs.

Soul choked back a growl, because, according to Maka, it's not socially appropriate. Even though he's picked up the habit from her.

But it was possibly the worst thing Kim could have said.

"Three days, Soul said through gritted teeth. "I'll have it in three days."

Kim narrowed her eyes. "Are you going to pull it out of your ass?"

Almost.

Maka's apartment is on the other side of the city, so he took his time. The subway, to a train, to another subway. But it's a short walk from the station to Maka's place, and just as easy to find. Her address is public knowledge, thanks to her attention-seeking, adulterous dad, and she was too stubborn to move.

That and the two dozen or so paparazzo camped out in front of her heavily guarded building were a fast and easy indication.

Soul sidled up to one of the less sleazy paps he knows. Liz Thompson, adjusting her tie dye camera strap, waved at him.

"Soul," she greeted. "Late on rent again?"

"It's the only reason I'm here," he replied.

Liz nodded grimly. She had a sister to feed and debts to pay, Soul knew. It was harder for Liz now that she had a legitimate job; the under-the-table money was good, but it only lasted so long, would only be as safe as Liz could fight to make it. Being a paparazzo was dirty work, but perfectly legal and safe.

 _Legal-ish._

A dark SUV pulled up to the crowded sidewalk. The crowd stirred excitedly and moved towards the SUV, cameras raised.

"Waiting to take up-skirt pictures of a vulnerable girl is not exactly how I want to spend my afternoon," Soul grumbled, but hoisted up his own camera reluctantly.

"I know," Liz grimaced. "But I'm saving up for Pat's birthday. Going to the swankiest buffet I can find."

Guilt seeped down to his gut.

"Hey, if you need-"

"Shut up," Liz said flatly. "Shut up right now. You're going to distract me from taking my shot."

Black-suited men came out of the SUV, glaring intimidatingly at the eager paparazzi. The lights started flashing before the more heavily muscled guard placed his hand on the car handle. Two other guards gestured for the crowd of paps to move back, their mouths set in firm frowns when no one obeyed. The guards pushed the crowd back, the paps closest to the SUV tripping backward. Maka stepped out of the car, red lips pursed. The flashing lights grew more frantic, making Soul close his eyes for a brief moment, dizzy.

"Nut up, Evans," Liz called out, elbowing another pap out of the way, her camera flashing wildly.

Soul half-heartedly snapped a couple himself, trying to tamper down the annoyance. The guards flung their arms out at the crowd, parting space for Maka. She held her head up high, her giant sunglasses and floppy black hat obscuring most of her face.

The paps edged as close as possible to her, shouting out nonsense things about her dating life, her father's innumerable affairs, her latest project. Maka steadfastly ignored them as she had been trained to do since infancy. She did not flinch, not once. Soul grinned to himself as he watched her move, so proud and awfully stubborn.

"Show us a little leg, sweetheart!" some dipshit shouted.

Soul groaned.

Maka whipped her head around, her sunglasses falling askew on her reddening face. She opened her mouth to reply, but her guard pushed her forward. She tripped and landed on one knee on the concrete sidewalk, and cried out in pain.

Soul shoved himself against the wall of paps surrounding Maka, reaching for her, but her guards quickly scooped her up and carried her through the crowd and into the building. The doorman stood firm at the entrance as the paps' cameras clicked, desperately trying to snatch one last shot of Maka Albarn.

The paparazzi out calmed, and clicked through the shots they had taken.

"Looks like little miss Albarn's got a drinking problem," one of them chortled. "Fallin' all over the place. Won't mommy dearest be proud?"

Soul _accidentally_ rammed the into the guy as he passed by, eyes set determinedly on Liz.

"Watch where you're going, asshole!" the pap snapped.

"I need a smoke break," he blurted to Liz, ignoring the pissed pap.

"Alright, I'll go with you," she said agreeably. "She's not coming out for a while, anyway."

"No," Soul said sharply. Liz cocked her head, eyes narrowed. Soul quickly backtracked. "I mean, I'm gunna take a piss in the alley. Didn't want to offend your feminine sensibilities."

"Ugh, go ahead. But you're going to miss Maka Albarn's exit. Remember, a picture of her smiling _without_ her middle fingers are worth up to five-hundred bucks."

Soul ducked into the alley, and slipped into a service door with a swipe of his keycard. He tried to avoid using it, but with the paps outside (and Liz), there would be no way for him to enter the building without being recognized by the doorman. He took the service elevator to the penthouse, glad for the loud hum drowning out his thoughts.

Soul used Maka's spare key to open the door, carefully lifting it so the frame didn't squeak. For a multi-million dollar apartment building, the maintenance sure sucked.

Soul crept in quietly, listening for movement. A clatter from the kitchen followed by a sharp swear alerted him, and so he moved towards the sound, his heart pounding louder and harder with each step.

Maka dug through the freezer with one hand, the other pressed a paper towel to her knee. She had shucked her giant glasses and hat already, the frustration on her face as apparent as the freckles splattered on her nose.

Editors usually photoshop them out when she appears in magazines, and Soul hates them for it.

"Hey," Soul said, casually leaning up against the cabinets.

Maka jumped, and ice packs and novelty ice cream bars poured out of the freezer.

"Hi, ugh," Maka grunted in greeting. "Jeez. Knock, much? I could have taken your eye out." She waved around a pair of brass knuckles, glittering around the hand that was previously rooting around the ice. They're pink, and in the shape of a cat.

"Very intimidating," Soul observed.

She stuck her tongue out. "Gotta take out your friends somehow."

Soul's shoulders stiffened. He needed the money, he had told her repeatedly, trying to justify his work. Piles of his legitimate prints were piled up in his apartment, unsold and gathering dust.

Maka smiled gently at him. "It's good to see _you_ , though," she said.

Soul hid his obvious pleasure and embarrassment by mumbling nonsense gruffly and wrapping ice in a paper towel for Maka's knee.

In the living room, she stretched out on her ancient fainting couch (which she specifically bought for the hilarious and slightly scandalous history) and gazed out the window completely unaware of how utterly gorgeous she looked. Her ease, her mile-long legs, and athletic body made her the perfect model. Maka would never admit it, but she got a lot of her talent from her dad. Soul remembered being kids, running around backstage at concerts. They would both come to a screeching halt when Maka's father took the stage. They would watch him, hypnotized, as Spirit Albarn danced on stage, microphone in hand. A casual tilt of his hips would bring the house down. Soul recognized the same moves when Maka modeled, posing and swaying as if she was dancing too.

He quietly snapped a couple of pictures before she noticed, and once she did she gave him a soft look that set his heart off in the depths of his chest.

"Creep," she snipped.

"A paps job is never done," he said. "But these are for me. "

"Creep," she repeated, but smiled and turned back to the window.

She was quiet for a bit, the television on in the background, white noise against the deafening sound of their silence.

"You're out of money," she said. It wasn't a question.

He couldn't make eye contact. "How did you know?"

"You're here."

"Ouch," he jokes, ignoring the guilt climbing up his throat.

"You don't visit otherwise," she pointed out.

Soul shrugged. "You're busy."

"Not for you," Maka admitted quietly, her face pinking. Pinpricks of a blush started in on Soul's own cheeks, and he quickly looked away.

After her career took off and his tanked, it got harder and harder to sit together and just be. They had only spare moments together before Maka gave him a key, shoved it into his hand last Christmas, and told him to stop by every time he could, where they would sit in a secluded corner of a coffee shop and reminisce about being kids, young and bill-free. Before Maka's mom left her with her strung-out dad, before Soul's photography failed to live up to the hype created by his well-meaning brother and overbearing mother.

"I'm headed to the airport at six tonight. Get your rent then."

Soul carefully developed the pictures he took that day, because he's a nerd and the process is soothing. He hung the pictures and watched them dry, Maka's entrance to the airport slowly comes into view. Her smile is priceless, one green eye winking cheekily at his camera.

Just his camera. Just for him.

Drying alongside the airport picture is the one Soul took in Maka's apartment, the one of her gazing out of her window. He planned on showing her those at lunch today as she did her best to stay incognito, her golden hair wrapped up in a scarf and eyes darting around to the exits.

She walked on her toes as a kid, always primed and ready for flight, or a fight.

Nothing changes.

Soul tucked both sets of pictures into separate envelopes, then tucked the envelopes into his backpack (personal pictures on top, rent money pictures on the bottom), and finally belly-flopped down on the threadbare couch. He stared at the little tear in his carpet until the sun rose.

He can't drive without falling asleep behind the wheel so he biked his way to the tabloid offices, envelopes strapped to his back. He briefly considers them and drops one of them into Blake "Black Star" Barret's mailbox, his editor-in-chief.

Soul's bike swerved and wobbled all the way to lunch with Maka. He arrived, alive and slightly sweaty, and found Maka (giant floppy hat and giant sunglasses to match) in their usual seat in the darkest recess of the restaurant. He sat down across from her as she tried to subtly move a decorative potted tree in front of the table, blocking them from view.

"Good thinking. No one wants to see you anyway."

Maka kicked him hard under the table. "You're late. I ordered for us already," she sniffed.

 _Us_.

The sound made his spine tingle, and he remembered the pictures stashed in his backpack. He dug out the envelope excitedly.

"These are the creeper shot I took yesterday, they actually look pretty-"

He held the pictures stiffly in his hands.

"What?" Maka inquired. "Did you just fall asleep with your eyes open? Again?"

His hands crumpled to glossy paper. "I…. fucked up."

Maka lowered her sunglasses down her nose, peering at him curiously. "What happened," she demanded.

Soul stood abruptly. "We gotta go," he said, seizing her hand and dragging her out of the restaurant.

They're not two feet from the entrance when a crowd of paparazzi swarm them. Flashing lights blinded them, the roar of questions shouted and screeched deafened them. Maka clung to Soul as the paps shove cameras and cellphone in their faces. Maka managed to snatch one and quickly scanned the screen.

" _Maka Albarn: Her Most Private Self,"_ she read incredulously. She shoved the phone back into the hands of a random pap and turned on Soul.

" _What the hell, Soul!?"_ She stomped away, taking out a few paps with her elbows on the way, and quickly hailed a cab. She hopped in, flipping the bird to the crowd on the street as the cab pulled away.

The paparazzi on the sidewalk would make a killing off of those pictures.

"Those were just for us- me. Just for me."

Black Star, suit, tie, and hair an obnoxious shade of neon blue, gazed at Soul contemplatively. "Are you hitting that?" Black Star asked flatly.

Soul sputtered. "What, no why are you 14 I'm not hitting that I mean what-"

Star nodded understandingly. "You wanna be hittin' that?"

Soul just made a choking noise.

"It's about time you got some," Black Star replied, sticking a monocle in his eye and peering at pile of proofs. "I was getting a little nervous for you, bro. I only know two gay dudes for you to stress-bang."

"I'm not _hitting_ anyone," Soul snapped. "The point was for you to get the pictures off of the website."

Black Star rolled his eyes at Soul, and tossed the proofs across his desk. "You're paid, bro. Pics posted. Mag's printed. Ain't retracting shit. Go apologize to your lady and offer her an exclusive interview with _Pop Peeps_ _Magazine_."

Soul stalked away, dread settling in his gut. There is no way she'll see him.

He wandered around the city but somehow ended up right where he wanted to be, right outside her door. Soul half expects his key to fail, the locks having changed, but the knob twisted easily and the door creaked as he pushed it open. He followed the sound of familiar music, his first- and last- album, the failure Maka called wonderful.

Soul finds her at the same window as the pictures from the magazine, her favorite spot in the entire apartment.

"The pictures are beautiful," she said, still staring out of the window.

"You're beautiful," Soul blurted. He felt his face flood with heat, and prayed she didn't turn around to see. Maka stayed very still, but he could see the back of her neck pink.

"I guess you won't need to visit anymore, after those pictures I'm sure you've got enough money to last you a while."

"I don't need the money," he said bitterly.

Maka snorted.

"Ok, I _kind of_ need the money," Soul admitted. "But I mostly just need you."

Maka finally turned around, her eyes shining.

"I'll make you a deal. You keep getting money, and _I_ get _you._ But there's one condition."

Not understanding how he could be so ridiculously in love with such a heinous nerd, he said " _Anything."_

She held her hands to her chest, cradling something he could not see but could feel, carefully, gently. She created pose after pose, smooth and graceful like she was dancing just for him. Soul's hand were shaking but she grinned at him between shots, soothing his worries and smoothing the wrinkles in his soul.

Black Star looked on, smug and crediting himself for discovering Soul Evans, the newest sensation in photography.

On the same wavelength, Maka and Soul rolled their eyes.

Chuckling, Soul grinned at her over the lens of his camera and she winked back.

He gets that shot too.


End file.
